Dream Sequence

by Adam Foulds

  “Thanks for staying over with me, Kentucky.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome.”

  “And so well brought up.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So,” Henry was interested in her now. “Is modelling what you want to do? In life?”

  “In life? Not really. It doesn’t last anyway. I take photographs. I have a Tumblr of my pictures.”

  “Cool. I’ll look it up.”

  “I want to study, really. Go to college. If there’s some way it won’t bankrupt me.”

  “You should do that. You’re obviously smart.”

  “Patronizing much?”

  “Hey, I’m showing you my good side right now. Take it while you can get it.”

  “Good night, Dr. McAlister.” She leaned forwards and kissed the tip of his nose.

  “Don’t call me that. I’m trying to leave that dude behind.”

  “Never watched it myself. But my mom loved that show. Loved it. Spoke about the characters like they were real people. You’ll never guess what Dr. McAlister said.”

  “Always the way with that show. People’s mothers watched it. Or their wives. Never them. Hey, did I tell you I’ve got this amazing new part in a big movie?”

  “Well, that’s just tremendous.”

  “That’s why I’m so thin.”

  “Not in my world you’re not.”

  “I’m pleased you’re here with me.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Goodnight, Kentucky.”

  “Goodnight, England.”

  *

  Henry didn’t sleep well. He was unused to having someone else in the room. He drifted up to the surface of consciousness several times, aware of the dimly visible room. Even so, when he was woken by an electronic noise that wouldn’t stop, it took him some moments to work out that the strange mass of hair and shoulder blades in front of him was Virginia and the noise was coming from her phone. He reached out and touched her back with the flat of his hand. She flinched. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said and typed the alarm off with a jabbing finger. “I’m sorry. I have to get back to my hotel. I have to get back to work.”

  “But it’s so early.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll come down with you. We’ll get some breakfast in the buffet.”

  “Okay. Nice man.”

  As only one breakfast was allotted to his room number, Henry had to add Virginia’s to his bill. It hardly seemed worth the flat tariff when she took only black coffee, a glass of water and two slices of watermelon.

  “That’s what I should be having,” he told her, sipping a berry smoothie, a bowl of granola and a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him.

  “It’s food,” she said, eating a pink square from her fork, “without any of the downsides of food.” She ate it quickly, slicing different bite-sized shapes with her knife and fork. “I’ve got to go. Otherwise they’ll put out an alert. Actually, they probably wouldn’t.”

  “Get a cab at reception and put it on my room number.”

  “I think they’ll need you to sign off.”

  “You’ve done this before.”

  “Don’t be rude.”

  “I’ll come with you, don’t worry.”

  They went out to the lobby together. Henry ordered her cab. He kissed her cheek. “I’ll find you later.”

  “Okay. Sure. I’ll be there.”

  “What? So will I. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Kissing me on the cheek like that.”

  “What? You want to French kiss? I’m being sensitive to local customs.”

  “Sure you were.”

  The things that women found significant, their interpretations. And always new ones, things you couldn’t predict. “I was,” he said.

  “Okay. Now go before your eggs get cold.”

  Philip appeared beside him as he walked back to the dining area. “You’ve made a friend, I see.”

  “I did. A model. American.”

  “Congratulations. Have you seen that media person, whatever she’s called? She’s supposed to be wrangling us into the interview booth.”

  “Oh, goody.”

  “Oh, you love it.”

  “For about ten minutes. Why don’t you help yourself to some food? I’ll eat whatever these leftovers are.”

  *

  Seated in front of the posters for A Paper Fortune, with plastic bottles of mineral water on hand and tea and coffee brought by hurrying festival assistants, Tom and Laura and Philip and Henry in varying combinations faced the different interviewers. Before they went in Tom reminded them the key ideas to hit in their answers and things in the plot they couldn’t reveal. The latter was fine by Henry. He could hardly remember what happened in the scenes—most of the film—in which he didn’t appear.

  “In we get,” Philip said. “Nice warm bath of smarm.”

  It was an exercise in synthesized enthusiasm, in mild flirtation and dissembled boredom and joke making, in responding to the quirky novelty questions that one of the interviewers asked. If you were a Muppet which Muppet would you be? Star Wars or Star Trek? These were asked by a young man from a Lebanese TV station who wore an outsized plastic red watch that inspired Philip to ask drily, “Do you have the time?” and later, “Do we have time, do you think, for any more questions?”

  A more reflective interview was conducted by an older Arabic cinephile who spoke in a low growl, wore square plastic-framed glasses and whose face of heavy stippled flesh looked cured in cigarette smoke. He sat back in his chair, the shoulders of his jacket rising to his ears. “Miss Harris, you are looking very beautiful,” he said.

  Laura murmured something in reply.

  “Don’t deny it,” Henry said. “You are.”

  “And what about me?” Philip asked.

  “Not as beautiful as you, obviously,” Henry said.

  The interviewer seemed perplexed. He began reading from his list of questions about this not entirely successful, meat-and-potatoes British political thriller. He looked as though he would be happier discussing Jean-Luc Godard or Abbas Kiarostami and asked questions that were more interesting than the film. He asked Laura about the female character as a sort of moral beacon and wasn’t that a regressive archetype in a way and Laura agreed, as far as she could within the bounds of promoting the film. He asked Henry about the prospect of working with the great Miguel García, an auteur, a provocateur. He’d done his research, evidently.

  Henry responded with how excited and nervous he was, what an inspirational artist García was, even just meeting him. Philip interrupted. “Shouldn’t we stick to the film here at the festival?”

  “Indeed, indeed.” He asked a few more questions then switched off his Dictaphone and made his farewell. He shook Henry and Philip’s hand and gave Laura a gentlemanly but no doubt relished kiss on the cheek. When he’d gone and the assistant was back offering more bottles of water, Laura said to Henry, “You must be getting pretty excited about that job now. Don’t you start rehearsing next week?”

  “I don’t think I do. Not that I know.”

  “I’d check with your agent. I got a text from my friend, Tess. She’s second AD-ing. I’m sure that’s what she said.”

  “Are you sure you’re sure?”

  “Yep. Here it is. Look. Rehearsing next week. Filming two weeks after that.”

  “I think I need to go and call my agent.”

  As he left, he raised reassuring hands at the media coordinator’s questioning face. “Five minutes. I’ll be back.”

  *

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

  “Carol, it’s so soon.”

  “But you’re flying back tomorrow. It’s rehearsal. Don’t panic.”

  “I just would have liked to know sooner i
s the only thing.”

  “Henry, I understand. We only got the information like ten minutes ago.”

  In the bathroom, fear drained the strength out of him, pulled the breath from him, tossed him into a cubicle to vomit. That almost felt like a choice, like the best thing he could do to alleviate his state. After a painful dry wrenching of internal muscles, it splashed out bright pink. It took Henry a frightened moment to connect this with his breakfast smoothie. The retching started again of its own accord, jerking his chin down towards the pan, flushing involuntary tears from the sides of his eyes. When it was over and he’d flushed it away and had pressed cold water to his face, he felt feeble and quiet, quietly scared, like a small animal.

  García had extended Henry the greatest invitation to failure he could imagine. That was suddenly clear. He might not be able to do it. Why did he think he could? He could fail terminally and everything that he wanted to happen then would not. But it was coming. There was no way out of it. There was nothing he could do.

  He returned to the interview room for two more. He said almost nothing, looking across at Laura whenever a question was asked so that she would answer while his thoughts looped in tightening circles.

  He ignored lunch. He went outside into the simplifying heat, the burning elegant surfaces of the architecture. He tried to remember everything he knew about Mike and to become him just for a moment, to feel the softening and then the new structures forming. He almost could but not really. If he forced it, he would become a cartoon of Mike, stiff and superficial.

  There was the ceremony of A Paper Fortune’s screening now to go through. Applause. Standing up front smiling humbly while the director said a few words. In the dark, he had to watch himself. Lumpen, untransformed, inadequate in a film that was barely adequate. In one exchange he hit something, something snapped into place with a sharp, rhythmical line reading. And he didn’t even have a memory of that moment. His empty stomach simmered. He wanted to get up out of his seat. He wanted to fuck Virginia again. He wanted to run. When it was over, there was more applause and then in the crush outside several short conversations to have with members of the audience. Through the throng, he could see Virginia giving directions to someone. When she was free, she came over to him.

  “You were great,” she said.

  “You were in there?”

  “I got in.”

  “Anyway, I beg to differ.”

  “Don’t be modest.”

  “I’m not. I really want to get out of here.”

  “Later on we can. I’ve found the party.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For tonight. One of the local Qatari guys, a younger one, is having a thing at his house and he’s invited like all the models. You can come with. We can get our crazy on.”

  “That’s good. That’s good. I’d like to blow my brains out with fun. I’m so pleased I met you.”

  *

  “These cars are ridiculous,” Henry said as a white Mercedes SUV collected several more of the girls.

  “All those luxury cars you see driving around,” Virginia said. “Those are the Qataris. You know they get like a hundred grand each from the government per year just for being Qatari. At least.”

  “Benefits scum. That’s a British joke. Welfare queens, you’d say. Are you sure they really want me there?”

  “Sure they do. You’re famous. Your bringing the glamour, baby.”

  “I think that’s your job.”

  “Probably all their moms watch The Grange.”

  Sitting next to each other in the back of a Range Rover, they surged smoothly through the nighttime city and out to a private residence where girls were being unloaded from another car. Two of them were laughing, talking in some Slavic language as they approached the house. A servant admitted them. The host stood behind, smiling and welcoming, his muscular torso packed into a tight, neatly torn t-shirt. He seemed pleased to see them. He looked happy, Henry thought, relieved from boredom, bright with the pleasure of acquisition. Henry recognized that look—hopeful, permissive, impersonal—and sympathized. It was the right spirit to start a party. Henry shook the host’s hand, a strong clamp that flexed the man’s bicep, and smelled his aftershave as he passed.

  The house was made of large spaces, softly lit. There were brass objects, pots and the like, massive leather furniture, fabrics hanging on the walls.

  “Very desert chic,” Henry said. He put on a gay interior designer’s voice. “I love it.”

  A massive kitchen with a three-sided breakfast bar was full of food and drink. Beyond, through a wall of glass, was an inner courtyard. Henry walked out into it. There was a large marble pond. Henry, pulling Virginia with him, went to look: turning slow gold shapes of carp, a small trickling fountain. While they were out there music started with a thump of speaker noise. A music system of shockingly high definition and volume got the party started. Henry could feel a breeze coming from the bass.

  A waiter appeared with a tray of drinks. Virginia took two, handed one to Henry.

  “Thank you.” He leaned to her ear to be heard. “What is it?”

  “One way to find out.”

  They drank some. “I still don’t know,” Henry said, pulling a mint leaf from his lip. “But it is booze. Let’s do more walk-around. You haven’t introduced me to any of your model friends.”

  “I don’t know them. I should go and talk to Marta. She was kind of assaulted by one of your people last night.”

  “My people?”

  “A famous.”

  On the way, Henry’s arm was held. He was detached from Virginia who carried on. The grip belonged to a short man who said, “Can I just ask you something real quick? Are you that guy from that British show?”

  “I might be.”

  “I thought it was you.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I am Ilham.”

  “Il—what is that?”

  “Ilham. I work with Daoud. We are making a record company.”

  “This is his house?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Henry stayed for a while in this eddy of conversation, catching another drink as it floated past.

  After another hour or so, there was definitely a party happening now. The rooms had achieved that density of noise and movement, too much happening to take in properly, things seen sidelong, discontinuous. Loud laughter or shouting occasionally broke like thunder. When all the servants were sent away—all walking out of the kitchen doors to wherever it was they slept—Henry expected things to go up a notch and they did. Daoud came in with a tray of stuff, razor blades and shining mirrors and white baggies and several cloudy bongs for those who liked to keep it mellow.

  Henry said to Virginia, “Are you into this?”

  “Sure. A little.”

  “I know, right? Why not take the escalator? Beats walking.”

  When his turn came, he dipped down for a thick, fortifying line. He held his nose, scrunched his eyes against the worm of sensation crawling in his sinuses. “Holy fuck,” he said. “That stuff is like cut with like even stronger cocaine. Fuck.”

  “Thanks for the warning there.”

  He watched Virginia inhale a slimmer stripe of powder. She approached delicately her own inverted reflection, a cat peering into a pond.

  “You do that very prettily,” he said. “I just snorted like a pig.”

  Virginia turned to face him, wide-eyed, a comic expression of shock on her face. “Wooh. Ayah.”

  “You’re great,” he said. “I feel like you understand me.”

  “You’re not too hard to understand.”

  “I know this so far has only been like a few days in the history of the world and whatever …”

  “Oh wow. We’re going into this. You can stop talking. We can do something fun instead.”

 
; “Come to the bathroom with me. I’ve been already. The bathroom’s great. I can tell you how scared I am.”

  “Sounds like a party.”

  “And maybe get a little sugar, a little what-what. You know what I’m saying.”

  “You’re gross. Let’s go.”

  In the quiet of the bathroom he could feel the stimulants in him, a buzzing vibration as he stood still. Virginia put her hands in his hair and kissed him. The taste of her mouth, alcohol and chemicals and talk. The smoke on her skin. He lost himself in it for a moment, holding her tight, disappearing.

  She pushed her hands against his chest and leaned back to breathe for a moment. “I get it. You’re pleased to see me.”

  “I am.”

  “And you’re scared, you were saying.”

  “Fuck me, I’m scared.”

  “Of what? Apparently according to Marta we could all actually be executed for the drugs here but that’s not going to happen.”

  “No. Of this film, this job I’ve got. It’s happening like as soon as I go back. I don’t wanna go back. Let’s run away.”

  “Oh, balls. Is that all? You’re good at acting. I’ve seen you do it. I need to pee. You can keep talking.”

  “It is a little distracting. I mean, I know it’s my job and I can do it …”

  Virginia arranged herself on the toilet, hunched forward and stared at a point on the floor to initiate her flow.

  “But maybe I can’t do it. And I’ve got to immediately stop eating again. I was starting to relax.”

  “Hey,” she said, standing up and dropping her skirt. “You want me to show you an old model’s trick?” She flushed and rinsed her hands. “An old ballet trick? That was what I wanted to do, by the way, when you asked me the other day. I was a dancer. Thought I was shit hot until I left Kentucky and found I wasn’t even close. So this is the trick.”

  Henry felt an intriguing sensation of things warping, of the world gone mad, when she plucked a tissue from a gold box by the sink and pushed it into her mouth. “Little water,” she said, muffled, and scooped some water from the tap. She closed her eyes, moved the thing around with her tongue, and swallowed. She showed him her empty mouth. “See. Few of those. You feel full for a long time. Then it goes right through you.”